Town and Country

“Toothbrush, moisturizer, cigarettes, lube…”
I’m in my bedroom, packing my overnight bag as my friends George and Slutty Mandy observe from the bed. My new fella, Preppy, has been staying over at my place consistently for the last few weeks, but I’ve yet to stay at his house. So tonight I’m having my first sleepover in Smyrna. It’s rare occurrence, me leaving the city limits, but Preppy wants me to meet his friends.
“You’re going to change, aren’t you?” asks George.
“What’s wrong? This shirt makes my arms look good.”
“Yes it does,” says Slutty Mandy. “At WetBar or Mary’s. But it’s a bit too overtly gay for the suburbs.”
“We’re going to his bar. He’s introducing me as the guy he’s dating. It’s not like I’m trying to fly under the radar here.”
“Darling,” says George. “We’re thinking of your safety. I’ve heard of these Outside-the-Perimeter types, seen them on the news. Don’t hold hands or kiss. In fact, you two should really be on opposite sides of the room.”
“Y’all, he’s not taking me to Petticoat Junction. It’s Smyrna. Julia Roberts is from there.”
“Yes,” says George. “But she left. Now put on something from The Gap.”
Apparently Preppy is the token gay in his group of friends. I was already anxious about making a good first impression, but now George and Slutty Mandy have me terrified. What if their reaction to me is similar to Middle America’s general response to gays? They like us witty and clean and completely devoid of all sexuality, like Ellen Degeneres or the guys from Queer Eye. The Smyrna friends might have been fine with having their one gay buddy, but when presented with firm evidence that he’s actually engaging in man-on-man action on a regular basis, would their heterosexual suburban values rebel? Would it all just be a bit too icky for their taste?
We’re waiting on the porch when Preppy arrives to collect me. George gives me a hug.
“Don’t hesitate to call if things get ugly,” he says.
We arrive at Preppy’s bar of choice, a standard-issue Applebee’s type place, anchoring the corner of a shopping center and filled with frat boys and their Express-clad blondes. We are instantly assaulted by a group of squealing women who end every sentence with an exclamation point.
“Oh my Gawd! You’re Topher! You’re so cute! I love you! Come do shots with us!”
We’re off to a good start. Everybody seems to be getting along great. After a few rounds of shots, Preppy puts his head on my shoulder, a sweet gesture. It’s a gesture that does not go unnoticed, as I spot a twentysomething with a buzz cut giving us the stink eye from across the room. Then Preppy leans in and kisses my neck, which launches the guy across the room out of his chair, making an irate beeline for us. I brace myself for the inevitable confrontation.
But before the Buzz Cut can complete his approach, a giant linebacker type intercepts, blocking him from reaching us.
“Dude,” says Linebacker. “You got a fuckin’ problem?”
I cannot hear the response to this question, but I can see that Buzz Cut is quickly being reduced to a quivering puddle of goo.
“Nobody else here has a problem,” says Linebacker, leaning in close. “I think YOU’RE the problem.”
Realizing that this exchange has drawn the attention of everyone in the vicinity, Buzz Cut gives us a final angry look before heading off to another part of the bar. Linebacker walks over to Preppy and me.
“It’s cool,” he says. “My brother’s gay. Anybody gives you shit, you come get us.”
And then he shakes my hand and rejoins his table of cheering frat boys and dishy blondes, who collectively are my new favorite people in the world. I turn back to Preppy and give him a real kiss, beginning to understand why he likes this place so much.
It’s always great to hang out at gay bars, among our own kind, and paw each other as much as we want. But there’s a true sense of pride that comes with showing affection at a random straight bar in the suburbs, and finding unexpected allies willing to defend our right to do it. Thanks, y’all.

Ring the Alarm

I set four alarm clocks every night, because I live in mortal fear of oversleeping and missing something major I was expected to accomplish the next day. So I love Sundays. A lot. It’s the only morning that I’m slowly lulled out of sleep by sunlight filling the bedroom, and it always feels like a minor victory.
Last Sunday, I rolled over in bed to find Preppy still asleep. It was the morning after our fourth date, or fifth if you count an afternoon that we grabbed a few hours together before seeing each other again that night. Preppy had joined George and me on an outing to our bar, and I’d introduced him to several of my friends. To my great relief, everyone seemed to connect really well (the last few men in my life have not quite met with my friends’ approval, a fact they made painfully obvious). At one point, my friend Nick pulled me aside.
“Topher, we like him. Really,” said Nick. “Would you please try not to fuck this up?”
“I always try not to,” I said.
“Okay, well, whatever it is you normally do, DON’T DO THAT.”
Which, when you think about it, was pretty sound advice.
So Sunday morning, I went to the sink and did that thing where you brush your teeth and wash your face before crawling back into bed, so that when he wakes up he thinks you always look amazing. And then I laid there, watching him sleep, amazed by my own good fortune.
I think this boy’s sensational. I’ve never experienced the whole can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other business, getting all goofy when he’s around, developing an instant rapport. It’s kinda tremendous. He even gets along with my friends. I mean, my God, my roommate George likes him. And George doesn’t like ANYBODY. And what’s more, when he says he thinks I’m amazing, I actually believe him.
And as I laid there, considering all this, I felt a wave of new and unexpected emotion rising inside of me.

It was a feeling I was completely unprepared to face.
And that feeling was cold panic.
It was like a fire alarm going off in my head. I realized with horror that I wouldn’t be able to keep this up forever. Eventually, there’ll be a morning that he wakes up before I do, and he sees me all bleary-eyed and icky. Or I’m gonna have one of my patented neurotic fits (like the one I was having at the moment), and Preppy will realize I’m not nearly as sweet or together or amazing as I managed to make him believe in those first few weeks or months. And what then? Would he run screaming? Plenty of others had. Should I be bracing myself for that eventuality?
Some little voice in my head spoke up.
“Why not, darling?” Little Voice said. “It’s what you always do.”
Little Voice sounded like George. Little Voice was a bitch.

But Little Voice had a point. When it ended with The Ex two years ago, it hurt. A lot. And I didn't bounce back very fast. And in the time that's passed since, I’ve always been hopeful about finding someone new, but there was a certain part of me that held back, steeling myself for the ending. And when the ending came, I took it really well… because deep down, I’d been expecting it all along. I knew that the one time I really worked on a relationship with someone, that’s all it ended up being: work. And I was devastated by the failure. I couldn't imagine willingly placing myself in a position to go through that all over again. But I had to accept that the reason things ended that way was because I was with the wrong person.
Maybe Preppy would turn out to be the right guy, or maybe he wouldn’t. But the hard truth of it was, I’d never be able to really love someone again if I was too busy shielding myself from potential pain.
So that morning, I gave myself permission to relinquish a little control. I decided to take a chance, and see what happens. If I end up getting hurt, I know I can take it. I’ve survived worse.

And I think he might be worth the risk.

Then I rolled over and went back to sleep, because it was Sunday. There were no alarms going off, and there wasn’t a thing in the world to do except curl up with the boy in my bed.

Road Hazards

As a taxpaying, hardworking citizen of Atlanta, I would like to lodge a public complaint.

YOU BITCHES GOTTA DO SOMETHING ABOUT THE ROAD BAND-AIDS.

I have no idea what the hell they’re doing that requires them to put thirty of ‘em down in a row and leave them untouched for a week, but it is preposterous. Now, I don’t personally drive a car, so I’m not at great risk of property damage, but when road band-aids start affecting my sex life, this has just gone too fucking far.
This requires a little backstory.
Friday night at the bar. I didn’t even spot the preppy boy with pretty eyes until my roommate George was standing at the exit jangling his car keys. Time was not on my side.
“Five minutes,” I begged. “A guy just made eyes at me.”
“Absolutely not,” said George. “This bar is dead to me. There will be other men with eyes at our next stop.”
“One minute!”
“I will leave you, Topher!”
So I grabbed his keys and ran directly to Preppy, who was standing with a pretty girl. I had an instant of pause, thinking he might be a straight guy out with his girlfriend (have y’all noticed there’s a lot more of those lately? What’s goin’ on there?), but this was no time to finesse or hesitate. I knew George would be back to tackle me for his keys at any moment. And he’d get ‘em back, too. George may be a skinny thing, but he fights dirty.
“Hey,” I said to Preppy. “I swear I would normally spend the next hour flirting with you, but my ride is ready to try his luck elsewhere so I gotta go. But you’re really cute and I’d like your number. Assuming you might be interested. And that she’s not your girlfriend.”
“That’s really sweet,” he said. And then he kissed me, which is a really great way to let someone know you’re interested. Then I got his number, and his NAME, which usually comes before the kiss, but who says there’s rules to these things?
George tapped me on the shoulder.
“Give me my damn keys, you trollop,” said George. “We’ll stay. But you owe me.”
I spent the night fawning over Preppy, right up until the lights came up at closing, which is always so disorienting and leaves everyone scrambling like blinded lab rats. I said goodnight, and found George outside, already sitting in the car with the engine running. He opened the window.
“I assumed you wouldn’t be home tonight,” he said.
“He offered, but I’ve got a lot of work tomorrow and stuff. I told him to call me. Now unlock the door.”
“Darling, really, you should go home with him. You’re so much easier to live with when you’ve gotten laid.”
I wavered.
“Well, it’s too late now. I already said goodnight.”
“Then you’d better hurry,” said George, who then threw the car in drive and peeled off, leaving me standing in the parking lot.
I ran back around to the front of the bar, where I found Preppy getting in his car. I yelled for him to stop. He turned and smiled.
“Change your mind?”
“My roommate ditched me because I turned you down.”
“Wow. I like your roommate. Come on, I’ll take you to your house.”
“No,” I said. “Your house is fine.”
George was right. This would be great. A good time to be had by all. Preppy was gainfully employed, funny, had his own place… this was very, very good.
Or, it would have been. A road band-aid was lying askew over the gaping maw that was once Monroe Drive. Preppy’s car managed to hit it just wrong, causing the tire to rip to shreds on impact. I’m pretty handy in these scenarios (pedestrians should always know simple auto repair or nobody will ever offer you a ride), so I broke out the spare and changed his tire.
But by the time everything was said and done, we were filthy, pissed, and exhausted. The moment just didn’t scream romance anymore. Fuck you, road band-aid.
So someone, I’m not sure exactly who, but I’m gonna Google it, should be held responsible. Mayor Shirley Franklin? The Pothole Posse? I’ll find out. And when I do, I expect some assistance. Because y’all made me miss out on potentially good sex here, and George will tell you: I’m gonna be impossible to live with until that changes.

The Domino Effect

My bank statement came in the mail the other day, so I sat down for the sobering ritual of re-living the last month through my impulse purchases. When my roommate got home, I had thoughts to share.
“George,” I said. “I don’t think I’m spending wisely.”
“Certainly not on your wardrobe,” George replied.
“For real. I think I’m putting at least three bartenders through night school. If I’d saved up all the money I’ve wasted buying cocktails for people who never talked to me again, I could have bought myself one hell of a male escort by now. At least he’d be a sure thing, and probably teach me some new stuff.”
“This is true.”
While I haven’t quite reached the point of engaging the services of a professional, I felt like I was getting a glimpse of what eventually leads people to make such decisions. You know the drill. You get all dressed up in your graphic tee and your nice-ass pants, carefully craft properly tousled hair, and head out to your bar of choice feelin’ all cute. You’ve got hopes. Not HIGH hopes, because you’re no fool. Just hopes. And you talk to the same people, or nobody at all, and you sip your drink while scanning the room looking a little too alert, like a wary Chihuahua. And as much as you claim you’re there because you like the music, or you just came for the show, YOU KNOW WHY YOU’RE THERE. At some point you realize tonight won’t be your magic night, you go home, take off your cute little outfit, and go to bed convincing yourself that eventually something different will happen.
But then you have that same night a few dozen times, or maybe a few hundred, and you ask yourself, “What if something different isn’t going to happen? What if, for now, this is all I’ve got to work with?”
A few nights later, George came in from the gym and found me in the kitchen, opening a bottle of wine. He gave me a quizzical look.
“Slutty Mandy’s coming over,” I announced. “We’re gonna play dominoes and drink Chablis. You in?”
“But it’s Tuesday, darling. You haven’t missed a Tuesday at the bar in… well, ever.”
“Precisely,” I said. “I need something different to happen. Anything. Plus, I’m broke. So you wanna play or not?”
“You should know,” said George. “I’m frighteningly good at dominoes.”
Within a few hours, George proved this was true by handing Mandy and me our respective asses. We took our losses very well, most likely thanks to the Chablis.
“So,” said Mandy as we set up again. “Whatever happened to that boy you climbed a mountain with?”
“Abducted by aliens. Kidnapped and dumped in a desert. Something like that.”
“Is that why we’re hiding out tonight?” she asked. “Some guy stopped calling and you needed to lick your wounds?”
“No. It’s all of it. The perpetual cycle I’m on lately. It’s not just this one boy. I mean, they ALL pull the same shit. They ALL just stop calling. It’s only a matter of when.”
Sudddenly, I was mortified.
“Oh my God. Do I sound bitter?”
“Not bitter, darling, just experienced,” George explained. “You’re right. Things go along just fine, you think it’s safe to get a little interested, and then, POOF, they’re gone.”
“And if you run into them in public,” I continued. “It’s like y’all never went out in the first place. He’ll do that pleasant-but-chilly thing that bank tellers do. It’s Gay Dating Amnesia, it is a rampant crisis, and sweet Jesus, someone needs to find a cure.”
“There should be public service announcements,” said Mandy. “Neil Patrick Harris could do them. ‘Talk to your doctor about Gay Dating Amnesia. Together we can find a cure.’”
“So what do we do?” I asked. “How do we change the outcome?”
“What else can you do, babe?” said Mandy, gesturing to the dominoes. “You take a break, get back in the game, and if luck’s on your side, you’re bound to win eventually. That’s how you’ll get a boyfriend, and how I’m about to kick George’s pansy ass at dominoes.”
Slutty Mandy said this with such authority, I couldn’t help but believe her.

If the Shoe Fits

I’m standing in a ballroom at the prestigious Capitol Club, wearing my good suit and a pair of George’s shoes. It’s best if I stand still. I wear a size 13 1/2 wide. George is a 10 narrow. It took me twenty minutes to get these loafers on, feeling not unlike one of Cinderella’s stepsisters. I’m becoming increasingly concerned that at any moment the shoes will give up the fight and explode, freeing my giant feet from their confines and drawing no end of unwanted attention.
I have a standard policy that I will not wear dress shoes unless someone’s dead, but George insisted this occasion called for decorum. I was persuaded, but for only one woman in the world:

Martha Stewart is less than ten feet away from me.
My friend Rich had a ticket to the reception in Martha’s honor. He managed to get me in, knowing that if he invited anyone else, I would set myself on fire.
We’re moments away from actually meeting her. I can’t tell if my shortness of breath is from nerves, or my suspicion that my feet are actually bleeding at this point.
And here we come to a helpful hint: If your shoes are so small that they’re causing you to limp, just accept the limp and go with it. If you attempt to overcompensate and walk normally, you will end up looking like you’re doing the Mashed Potato, which is fine if it’s 1963, or you’re partying at Little Richard’s house, but will do you no favors at a cocktail party for the Eva Peron of housekeeping.
Rich says she’s ready for us, and I do my crazy wiggle dance across the room. Martha’s had some wine, she’s loose and funny, very warm. She shakes my hand. I resist the urge to hug her. This is a big moment for me. And yet, as she speaks with us, I have one thought running through my head:

“AAARGH! MY FUCKING FEET! OH MY GOD!”
I certainly cannot remove my shoes, and I don’t want to walk away from Martha (when would I ever have this chance again?), but I’m freakin’ dying here. So, for lack of a better idea, I drop to my knees in front of her, kneeling on the floor. I do this as though it’s the most normal thing in the world, perhaps a quaint local custom no one mentioned. My relief is instantaneous. And as a testament to her class and unflappable nature, Martha continues the conversation without ever noting that one of us is now possibly preparing to do a little yoga. Rich takes his cue from Martha, keeping eye contact with her, I look up smiling at both, and we all pretend I’m not doing this. But then our audience with the Domestic Diva has ended, and I missed most of it worryin’ about my damn shoes.
Later, I’m barefoot at the bar, recounting the story for George and Nick as I nurse my bloody, blistered feet, when I’m interrupted by Nick’s phone. We groan in unison when he shows us the text message he’s received.
“R U IGNORING ME?”
“That’s number six for the day, boys,” says Nick. “And I haven’t responded once.”
“That poor man,” says George. “He should try to preserve a little dignity.”
“What am I going to do about this guy? He was okay, it just wasn’t a good fit. And now he’s creeping me out,” Nick says, genuinely distraught. Nick is much nicer than we are.
“Oh, hand me the phone,” I say, reaching. “I can put a stop to this. Driving men away is one of my marketable skills.”
Nick resists, still holding out hope that he can let this relentless suitor down gently. I wish I could show this guy my feet, because I’d have such a great visual aid for my little life lesson: If something doesn’t fit, do not try to force it. You’ll only put yourself through unnecessary pain and risk ruining something really great.
I doubt Nick’s suitor would see the paralell, but I plan to keep it in mind.
And that’s a Good Thing.

What Would Joan Do?

Joan Crawford is in trouble. She’s just discovered her husband is having an affair, and plans to kill her. But does Joan panic? Does she go to the police? Absolutely not. Joan puts on a fabulous negligee, gets in bed, and has a cigarette, so she can think properly.
It’s Saturday night, and my roommate George and I found ourselves with no plans for the evening. The current object of George’s affection is out of town, and I’ve put a call out to the boy I have a crush on, but so far he hasn’t called back. We decided to turn our phones off, raid the liquor cabinet, and watch black and white movies in our jammies. Our current selection is the thriller Sudden Fear, which we knew would be awesome when the opening credits listed “Miss Crawford’s Hats by Felix, Inc.”

We love a movie with good hats.
Joan’s out of bed now, at her writing desk, carefully outlining how to kill her husband before he kills her, and as a bonus, frame his mistress for the crime.
“You ever notice in old movies everybody has a writing desk?” I note. “Even if you’re living in a tin shack in Hoboville, you’ll still have a writing desk.”
“Well sure,” says George. “The first place to look for dirt is a writing desk. It’s where people keep the safe combinations and incriminating photos.”
“And it’s where everyone creates their diabolical plans. I don’t do enough diabolical planning at my writing desk.”
I suppose everyone needed a writing desk in those days because people still wrote letters. Now we send text messages, and nobody really needs a texting desk. It’s a shame, too, because I think a lot of the charm of watching Ms. Crawford carefully writing out her scheme would be lost if she was punching it into her Blackberry.
As Joan artfully manipulates her sinister husband, I keep casting glances at my phone.
“I saw that,” says George. “I thought it was off.”
“It’s on silent. I didn’t want to miss him if he calls. He said he wanted to get together this weekend.”
George gives me a look, so I switch the phone off and turn my attention back to watching our heroine emerge triumphant.
The next morning, I send a text message to the crush, just a quick one to say hi and inquire about his plans for the day. He doesn’t respond. George joins me on the porch with coffee in hand, finding me staring at the phone, willing it to do something.
“You’re getting awfully close to pathetic territory here, darling,” says George. “How many unanswered messages have you left?”
“One voicemail. Two texts.”
“Topher,” he says gently. “If you were watching this in a movie, would you say this is the behavior of a self-assured individual with a lot to offer a quality man, or the desperate acts of a sad creature whose personal happiness is for some reason entirely dependent on the approval of others? Ask yourself: What would Joan do?”
That answer is, of course, quite simple. Joan would pity the poor soul who missed the chance to spend time in her company. She would forget the man entirely and go buy herself a new hat. If he came to his senses later, she might give him another chance, but he’d have to work twice as hard. I’m not following her example at all. I’m acting like the loosely-defined mousy secondary character the leading man would eventually come to his senses and abandon for someone like Joan.

This will not do.
I open my phone and delete the crush’s number, thus eliminating the temptation to call him again. It feels so good, I scroll through and delete the phone numbers of every guy who never returned my call. It’s a lot more names than I expected. Now I won’t be confronted by a list of failed possibilities every time I look at my phone book. Feeling confident and renewed, I walk into the house and sit at my writing desk, the best possible place to plot my next move.

Strengthening My Resolve

My grandmother on my mother’s side, the widowed commander of a brood of six children, was presented with the daily task of staying afloat on a very limited budget. She rose to the challenge admirably, stretching every morsel of food and inch of fabric to cover the demands of her family. Her resourcefulness truly had a chance to shine every December, when she created low-cost alternatives to the usual holiday fare.
As a tribute to my late grandmother, my Mama still prepares her “unbaked fruit cake”, a sticky-sweet mishmash of condensed milk, vanilla wafers, and candied fruit, formed into a loaf and left to harden on the counter for several weeks.
There are no words to sufficiently describe how horrible it is. It barely qualifies as food. The polite but unfortunate relations who have attempted ingesting this concoction have either lost teeth or experienced instantaneous insulin shock.
My sister Shannon and I have spent years reminding Mama that the only reason our grandmother prepared this monstrosity is because she was poor. Had the option of preparing actual fruitcake been financially viable, she would have gleefully done so. Perhaps a more fitting tribute to our grandmother would be baking the fancy fruitcake that eluded her all those years.
Mama remains unmoved by our entreaties, declaring unbaked fruitcake a sacred family tradition, whether any of us like it or not.
While I was in Mississippi avoiding the fruitcake last week, I was faced with a note in my own handwriting:
This will be the year I get in shape. I will find a boyfriend. I will stop wasting money. I will learn sign language.
This is not a list of my resolutions for 2007. It was my list for 2006. I wouldn’t have even remembered the damn thing if I hadn’t had the bright idea last December of placing it in an envelope and leaving it at my parents’ house. The version of me that found the wicked little document twelve months later is single, carrying fifteen extra pounds, broke, and decidedly not proficient in communicating with my hands.
I don’t know why I bother with resolutions at the beginning of every year. “Get in shape” has been on my to-do since Clinton was in the White House, but its inclusion appears to be insufficient motivation to actually do anything about it. “Find a boyfriend” is a pronouncement that fails to acknowledge I cannot bend attractive men to my will, despite my best efforts. “Stop wasting money” is violated every time I step into a bar, and that sign language thing was strictly because I had a crush on a hot deaf guy and thought it might improve my odds. Turns out he could read lips, and he still wasn’t interested.
And yet I make the damn list every year. I suppose it’s tradition.
Perhaps Mama and I would be well-advised to pause and consider what “tradition” really is. It’s intended to be an activity you actually enjoy repeating, like my buddy George and me watching “Brothers & Sisters” every week, or going to karaoke at Mary’s on Tuesday nights. Annually preparing a brick of cookie crumbs and neon green cherries, or making a list of your perceived faults, is not tradition. It’s just making the same mistake over and over and not learning anything.
There are plenty of lessons, in retrospect, I learned in 2006- the result of all the unexpected challenges and rewards that come up over the course of a year. But how the hell was I supposed to anticipate any of that on January first? For good or bad, the year was what it was. Sometimes the results were fantastic, and sometimes it was an unbaked fruitcake: The best mix of what I had to work with at the time, with the hope of something better later. I don’t expect 2007 will be any different in that regard.
So I’m gonna start the year with a new tradition: I will look forward to whatever mysteries the year has in store, and my only resolution is not to resolve anything at all.

The Ties That Bind

I’m at the toy store, Christmas shopping for my nephew Baby Jack. Buying presents for babies really is a pure act of giving- it’s not like he’ll have any concept of who purchased the item, I just get the satisfaction of knowing he enjoyed it.

It’s probably similar to the feeling people get when they buy gifts for their pets, or senile elderly people.
I keep picking up toys that are completely inappropriate for a very small child, but would be totally awesome for me. You should see how they’ve souped up the Etch-a-Sketch! Mine just had the two knobs, and you shook it to start over when you fucked up the picture. Now it’s got like fifty different features, like somehow remembering your pictures, and engaging in intelligent conversation.
Nothing brings a family together like a cute baby, so everyone’s coming home this year to watch him play with the presents they give and keep score on which ones he likes best. It really has ignited a competitive spirit among my relatives- if Baby Jack rejects your toy, obviously you are incurably stupid and have no concept of what the child likes. However, if Baby Jack selects your toy from the pile to become his latest most cherished possession, it can only mean that he loves you best.
Of course, come Christmas morning, he will most likely ignore all the toys in favor of the boxes and wrapping paper.
When I was little, my sister Shannon and I engaged in an annual battle over who would be first out of bed on Christmas morning to see the loot Santa left. As the years progressed and the wake-up calls kept getting pushed back earlier and earlier, my mother tried to alleviate the predawn toy rush by giving each of us a Benadryl capsule before bed on Christmas Eve. But even drugging us into submission couldn’t prevent the need to be the first to see what Santa had left behind. In order to assure one could not rise without waking the other, Shannon and I eventually started binding our hands to each other with yarn. If she jumped out of bed first, she’d drag me along with her.
I know a lot of people’s childhood holiday traditions don’t involve drugs and bondage, but these are cherished memories in my family.

I slept quite contentedly with my hand tied to my sister, knowing as long as we were attached, there was no way I’d miss anything good.
Before I head back to Mississippi, I’ll have Christmas with my roommates George and Kit. Kit moves to New York at the end of December, acting on a completely selfish desire to live in the same city as the man he married last month. I just lost my buddy Slutty Mandy to New York a few months ago. I really wish that goddamn city would stop taking all my friends. Last week, this really nifty guy I’d been on a few good dates with kinda dropped me, and even though Slutty Mandy listened patiently on the phone as I wallowed in my momentary misery, it just wasn’t the same without her drinking beside me. The thought of also losing Kit in this capacity fills me with dread. I’m totally running low on people who are willing to pat me on the head and tell me I’m pretty and all men are idiots.
I guess it’s another one of those damn lousy side effects of the passage of time. Mulling over my options in the toy store, it occurs to me that Christmas morning no longer belongs to my sister and me- now it’s for the baby. We leave that particular sense of wonder and joy to a younger generation, and we move on to discover new surprises elsewhere. That’s why my friends are scattering to the four winds. I understand that, really I do. But it’s still very difficult to resist the urge to grab some yarn and bind our wrists together, keeping us attached, so I don’t miss anything good.

Stealing Christmas

When I was sixteen, one of my many roommates in California was a girl from Texas named Jenna. She’d come out west in search of fame and fortune as a dancer, like Nomi Malone in Showgirls, but things weren’t really working out in her favor. Jenna loved to dance, but not half as much as she loved to drop acid and take eight-hour baths. She’d spend the entire afternoon in the bathtub, lounging in lukewarm water, quietly humming to herself and staring slack-jawed at the wall. As long as you didn’t need to bathe, she wasn’t any trouble. It was like living with a very quiet mermaid.
Jenna had a Greek boyfriend named Nicos, who’d come over and sit on the bathroom floor next to her. Many nights I’d tell them goodnight, then get up the next morning and go in there to pee, only to find them still wide awake, sitting in amiable silence.
One day in early December, Nicos came over, had sex with Jenna, and then told her he couldn’t handle how serious they’d gotten. This was fascinating to me, as I couldn’t recall them ever having a conversation more than five sentences long. Jenna was so distraught she didn’t leave her room for the rest of the day. I worried about her being out of the water for so long.

I was tempted to go in her room and mist her down with a water bottle, like they do with beached whales.
Nicos called later in the day, but it was just to tell me he’d left his wallet in her room when they had the pre-breakup sex, and he’d be by later to get it. I decided to improve the mood in our house and make Christmas cookies. Our oven had never been used, so it was a pretty big moment. As my first batch was baking, Jenna appeared in the doorway.
“Do I smell cookies?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I walked over to the Fairway and got some baking stuff, you know, for the holidays.”
“Did Nicos call?”
“Yeah. He left his wallet.”
That brought a new wave of tears, interrupted by the oven timer. Then we stood in the kitchen, scalding our tongues on freshly baked peppermint cookies.
“Dude, this is so perfect. We needed some motherfuckin’ Christmas up in this dump, ya know?”
Suddenly, Jenna perked up. She had been fortified by the Christmas cookies.
“We need a tree! And ornaments!”
“And if we had money, we would get them.”
“Dude,” she said, smiling. “This one’s on Nicos.”
We hopped in Jenna’s convertable, and went down the mountain to the Target in Hemet, spending all of Nicos’ cash on ornaments, lights, tinsel, and ribbons. Then we went to a roadside Christmas tree farm and picked out a tree. That’s when Nicos’ MasterCard was declined.
“That motherfucker didn’t pay his credit card bill,” said Jenna. “I knew he’d find a way to screw me over one more time.”
We left, disheartened. We had all the trimmings, but no tree. I tried to look at the bright side. We could still deck the halls, so to speak, and then hit up our roommates for tree money. Jenna came to a stop in a supermarket parking lot.
“I’m gonna get cigarettes. Will you drive us home? I’m exhausted.”
I climbed into the driver’s seat as Jenna went into the grocery store. She returned seconds later and banged on the window, yelling for me to put the top down before running away again. I got the roof down on the convertible just in time to see a fir tree running full-speed towards the car. Jenna threw the tree in the back seat and jumped in beside me.
“I found a tree! Haul ass!”

Apparently the supermarket was selling trees out front, and had made the regrettable error of leaving it momentarily unmanned. We considered it divine intervention.
Later we sat in the living room, eating cookies and admiring our work, when there was a knock at the door. It was Nicos, whom we’d held such ill will toward a few hours ago. But his unexpected generosity had cheered us up considerably, and brought holiday joy to our home. Now we would give a gift in return: A life lesson about leaving your wallet at someone’s house when you break up with them.

Bending the Rules

“You don’t understand. That is a twenty dollar bottle of moisturizer.”
“Sorry, sir. It’s over the three-ounce limit.”
I’m standing in the airport security line, flying for the first time in a few months. Somehow, I missed the latest memo on insane travel restrictions. As a result, I’m now locked in a standoff with a man who has obviously had this conversation umpteen million times.
“If I bend the rules for you, I gotta bend ‘em for everybody else,” he says, and tosses half of the contents of my shaving kit into a trash bin.
I’m on my way to Vegas, to serve as Man of Honor at my roommate Kit’s marriage to his boyfriend, which will be perfectly legal in all fifty states.
It’s complicated.
Kit is a guy who was inconveniently born with girl parts, but he’s been working with medical professionals lately to correct that little error in manufacturing. His boyfriend Terrence was also born with girl parts, but he took care of that a few years ago. So now Terrence has a driver’s license identifying him as “M”, while Kit is still at this early stage classified as “F”. We’ve got an “M”, we’ve got an “F”, and we’re ready for Vegas. The best part is, even after Kit becomes legally classified as “M”, the marriage will still be valid. So I’ll finally have the satisfaction of seeing a legally married gay couple- it just took a pair of tranny boys to figure out how to do it.
Pause for a moment, and picture how long it took me to explain this to my mother.
A few hours later, I’m smoking under a palm tree outside the Las Vegas Marriage License Bureau, watching Kit and Terrence through the plate glass window. It’s almost midnight on a Saturday, so the cast of characters inside is pretty entertaining. One window down from my couple is a very drunk pair of college kids that stops talking to the clerk every ten seconds to make out. And one window down from that couple is an Asian businessman who appears to be marrying a middle-aged whore.
Speaking of middle-aged whores, my cousin flew to Vegas once and then drove all the way out to The Mustang Ranch with the express intention of losing his virginity. He had grown tired of waiting and really wanted to get the first one out of the way, so he engaged the services of a professional. Apparently the one he selected was having a really bad week, because she started crying before they even got undressed. They offered to get him a new girl with a sunnier disposition, but apparently nothing kills a hard-on quite like a sobbing hooker.
But I’m digressing. Back to the transsexual wedding. The next morning, we’re up bright and early to head over to civil court and get this marriage thing taken care of before brunch. The judge performing the ceremony looks exactly like one of the Skeksis from “The Dark Crystal”, if it were going as Bea Arthur for Halloween.
Even though we know we’re here on a technicality, thanks to that “F” on Kit’s license, it’s still very jarring to hear him called by his legal (female) name. And Judge Skeksis keeps saying that name over and over, as if reassuring herself that the “bride” really is a “woman”. In all the planning of this blessed event, I don’t think any of us ever considered the fact that Kit would be referred to as someone’s “wife”, which is patently absurd. Kit’s twice the man I am, in half the size, which technically makes him four times the man I am, I think. Math is hard. But then it’s done. Kit and Terrence are legally married. The fact that these two people could marry, but only when one was finished with his gender change and the other was just getting started, speaks volumes about how insane the whole argument against gay marriage really is. But today is encouraging, because my friends got what they wanted, and we got to bend the rules a bit.

And remember what the airport guy said: If they do it for some people, eventually they’ll have to do it for everybody else.

I'm a Big Boy Now

My mother knocked on my bedroom door one night when I was fourteen, and asked if I could spare a few minutes for her. I assumed she needed something from a high shelf, which was my standard purpose in the house. So I agreed, having no concept that I was falling directly into an elaborately planned trap.
I followed her to her dressing room, which was normally completely off-limits. It was painted storm cloud gray, with matching marble countertops. No matter the environment elsewhere, that room was always cool and quiet as a tomb. As we entered, I saw she had prepared for my arrival: There were little bottles and jars carefully laid out on the counter.
“Don’t be upset with me, but you are getting older, and that means you have to pay more attention to your skin.”
Here she gave a sweeping gesture to supplies she’d laid out. She then patiently explained how to properly wash my face and apply astringent, then opened a jar of oatmeal mask and demonstrated spreading the sweetly rancid glop on her face. I followed suit, and we stood back, waiting for it to dry. I watched my features harden in the mirror under the mask.

This was fun. Weird, but fun.
“You know,” she said, gathering a shallow breath. “You’re growing up... so fast. I can hardly believe it. Um, and if you have any... questions... about, oh, you know, anything... you can ask me OR YOUR DADDY, and we can. Talk. About it. It’s fine. Really.”
My God. Mama obviously had lost some sort of bet with my father, and had been forced to find a way to have the Sex Talk with me. And by making connections only my mother would find, she had determined the best way to handle it was combining the Sex Talk with the Skin Care Demo.

I wondered what expression I would have, had my face not been completely immobilized.
“Son,” she said, her eyes growing larger as cracks began to appear in her whiteface. “Do you have any questions?”
Oh boy, did I ever have questions. When Randy Devers came over and let me give him head, why did he always run to the bathroom just before he came? And why would he never talk about it? If I liked boys, did that mean I’d grow up and be a hairdresser? Should I be planning for that? What if I liked girls, too? Did I have to pick, or would one or the other just stop one day?
But I didn’t ask any of these questions.
“No, ma’am,” I said. “I can’t think of any.”
So we rinsed our faces, and that was the end of Skin Care/Sex Education at my house. The next afternoon, I returned from school to find a copy of “What’s Happening to My Body? A Book for Boys” waiting on my bed. It was a compelling text that I read with great interest. I learned nocturnal emissions were quite normal, but you should strip your own bed when they occurred. It was a book on puberty for WASPs that placed high importance on making certain you don’t inconvenience anyone in the process of becoming a man.
I craved having someone with whom I could speak openly about all the confusion, terror, and exhaustion I was experiencing. But teenage boys don’t talk like that with their families, or even with each other. Instead, I read my book and waited for it to end.
My roommate Kit just took his first hormone shot, marking the unofficial start of his own journey towards manhood. He’s always been a guy, but his birth certificate unfortunately disagreed with his assessment. So, proactive spirit that he is, Kit is setting out to make the outsides match the insides. I don’t pretend to understand the complexities of what trans people experience, but I do remember a thing or two about bouts of raging testosterone. So when Kit returned from his first appointment, he found a copy of a book on his bed: “What’s Happening to My Body? A Book for Boys”.

And now I can be the sympathetic ear I craved when I too was becoming a man.

Performance Anxiety

Mrs. Callahan stood before us, wearing one of the many theme sweaters from her wardrobe. All of Mrs. Callahan’s sweaters were works of misguided creative abandon. They made their first appearance right around Halloween, when she strolled into our fifth grade classroom wearing a cardigan emblazoned with a witch on a broomstick, cackling as she crossed a full moon. I quickly sketched the design so I could describe it in full, glorious detail when I got home. But the witch sweater was no fluke. In the ensuing weeks and months, Mrs. Callahan would reveal the full extent of her theme sweater collection. Scary sweaters led to harvest time, with cornucopias cascading nature’s bounty across her breasts, then pilgrims brandishing muskets on her back, and of course, the holiday sweater spectacular. It was impossible to listen to a word the woman said the entire month of December. Every time she turned her back to write on the blackboard, we would be greeted by a gleeful Santa, a frolicking reindeer, or the entire cast of the Nativity, ‘round yon Virgin.
It was now January, and Mrs. Callahan was wearing a relatively subdued snowflake sweater. It was safe to assume that this was merely her wardrobe pausing for breath before the Valentine’s Day series in our near future.
"Class," said Mrs. Callahan. "I have a very exciting assignment for all of you. I want you all to read a book, any book you’d like, and then give a one-page book report. But, for this book report, I would like you to present it..."
She paused, letting the suspense build.
"AS A CHARACTER FROM THE BOOK!"
She was quaking with excitement. She had implemented a whole new method of book-reporting, perhaps gleaned from an article she read in American Teacher while airing out the week’s sweaters.
My mind reeled with possibilities. I had recently stolen my sister’s copy of Flowers in the Attic, and thought it might be nice to play one of the children who died of arsenic poisoning. There was also a legion of characters from Steven King novels, but I was certain someone else would do that.
And then it hit me. The performance that would surely impress all of my ten-year old classmates beyond words, and finally reveal the depths of my talent:

I would portray Betty Mahmoody, the heroine of the spellbinding memoir Not Without My Daughter.
I’d found the book on my mother’s nightstand, and was quickly enthralled with the story of an American woman trapped in Iran by her abusive monster husband, and forced to overcome seemingly insurmountable odds to escape with her beloved little girl. This, I knew, would be the most powerful book report the fifth grade had ever seen.
I spent the next week crafting my performance, going through multiple drafts of Betty’s emotional monologue, in which I would recount the details of my harrowing escape while cradling a Cabbage Patch doll. I told my family nothing about the project, fearing they might try to interfere with my creative process.
My sister Shannon drove me to school on the day reports would be presented. The doll was in my backpack, as was a navy blue bedsheet I intended to wear as a burkha. Finally, I could contain my enthusiasm no longer. As we pulled into the drop-off lane at Upper Elementary, I told her all about my impending premiere. Her reaction was unexpected.

She began to cry.
"Oh, God, Topher. Please, please, do not do this. Everybody already makes fun of you, and they make fun of me because of you... They always ask me why my brother’s so weird, and I try to say you’re not, but then you pull stunts like this..." her voice trailed off.
"But I have to," I said. "It’s for a grade, and it’s all I prepared."
"You read all the time, you can do another book," she said. "A real kid’s book. And be a boy. Please. You’re making things so much harder for yourself."
We sat in the Camaro in silence. I knew my classmates told their older siblings about the bizarre shit Topher Payne was always doing. I knew my sister caught hell for it, and in their own way, so did my parents. I felt awful.
"Okay," I said. "I’ll be Encyclopedia Brown."
Later, I sat in Mrs. Callahan’s class, my Trapper Keeper holding the report on a Beverly Cleary book I’d hastily scrawled in the cafeteria. I watched my classmates, one by one, doing their mediocre interpretations of The Babysitter’s Club and the Hardy Boys. I tried so hard to fit in with these people. I’d played baseball, joined Cub Scouts, and suffered through year after year of Summer Day Camp, all in a fruitless attempt at blending with the majority. And for whatever reason, it hadn’t worked. I was different, and I’d always known it.

And I was so fucking tired of running from it.
"Topher," Mrs. Callahan said, a snowman waving at me from her torso. "It’s your turn."
I rose from my desk, removed the sheet and doll from my bag, and approached the blackboard. I wrapped myself in the sheet and faced my peers.
"My name is Betty Mahmoody. My husband held me prisoner for eighteen months in Tehran. He beat me every day. I wanted to run away, but... not without my daughter."
I told them of my demoralizing experiences in a foreign land, and described in vivid detail my escape via Arabian horseback into Turkey.
"I found my inner strength," I concluded. "I got away."
Here, I pulled my child close to my breast and had a private moment, reflecting on all I had overcome. I looked up, at the blank stares from my classmates. Mrs. Callahan was completely nonplused.
"...thank you, Topher," she said at last. "You may take your seat."
All of my sister’s warnings proved devastatingly accurate. At recess that afternoon, I was taunted and bullied more than ever. A huddle of teachers engaged in discussion, occasionally gesturing to me. But it didn’t sting as much as it usually did. It felt as though my skin had thickened, ever so slightly. I was no longer seeking their approval. I knew their opinions of me were not likely to improve, so why waste my time? Although I didn’t know it at the time, I was experiencing the first stirrings of personal pride.
It is my great fortune to live in a time and place where people with stories like mine (okay, not JUST like mine, but equally bizarre) gather together in a celebration of what makes us so damn special. And while the strides our community has made in mainstream culture should be recognized and honored, that’s not what Pride’s all about for me.
What I love about Pride is the feeling that, despite all odds, we are a community that is unapologetic about being ourselves. We chose not to assimilate, thus ignoring the weird, wonderful elements that define us. It was not an easy path in life. Many of us have been forced to forfeit the families, friendships, careers, or religious beliefs that we were told would sustain us. But one weekend a year, we gather and remind each other that it was worth it, and we have each other.
The ten year-old in me rejoices every year when I see, to my great relief, that it is not just me.

What's New, Pussycat?

When my life is a little more stable, I intend to get a dog. It will be a small dog, perhaps a Jack Russell or one of those little wiener dogs, and I will name him Benjamin. I heard once about a breed of dog that is incapable of barking. That sounds quite promising. Perhaps Benjamin will be one of those. I want something adorable that doesn’t invade my space, won’t make unnecessary noise, and will love me without question.

Basically the same qualities I want in a boyfriend.
I will be traveling a lot in the coming months, and then the lease is up on my apartment and I’m moving, which might be limited by bringing an animal with me. So the timing’s not right for a pet.
A few days ago, when I opened my front door, a cat wandered into my living room, curled up on the rug, and began to purr. I was completely bewildered. She was more comfortable in my apartment than I am. I checked her tag. Her name, it informed me, was Frisky. I called the phone number below her name, and left a message informing them of Frisky’s whereabouts. Fearing for her safety, I allowed her to stay until the owner returned my call.
I sat down to write. Moments later, Frisky joined me on my lap. This was a sweet kitty. Not that I wanted a kitty. But if I did want a kitty, I’d want one that did this.
I realized Frisky might be hungry, so I gave her tuna, which she ate with greedy enthusiasm. Then I realized with horror that she would need to relieve herself at some point, but I couldn’t let her outside. What if I let her out and she ran away? And then the frantic owner called, only to discover I’d let their beloved feline slip from my grasp? I would have to buy a litter box. But what if my leaving for the store caused Frisky such distress that she peed all over my furniture? I called George, and asked him to buy me a litter box, and more tuna. And some sort of toy on a stick, to amuse her. Maybe some catnip.
George is not a cat person. But, he conceded, if he liked cats, he would like this one. Frisky responded to this appraisal by rolling on her back and encouraging George to scratch her belly.
"She doesn’t look like a Frisky," I told George.
"You can’t rename someone else’s cat, Topher, it’s tacky," he chided.
Despite this, George and I began calling the cat Linda.
Linda slept on my bed that night, close to my head. I fell asleep to the sound of her purring. The next morning, I got the call.
"She’s an indoor-outdoor cat," said her owner, who lived around the corner. "She likes to explore. Just let her out, and she’ll come home."
So, I let her out. She had a home, and I didn’t want a cat anyway. That night, walking about a block from my house, I saw a bouncing ball of white fluff crossing the street. It was Linda. She followed me all the way home.
"Go away, Linda," I told her. "You don’t live here."
Then I gave her more tuna, and entertained her with the feather on a stick.
"Topher, she’s not yours," said George, watching me with disdain.
"But, maybe she’s not happy with her current owner," I replied. "Maybe they don’t appreciate her, and she wants a new life."
"Oh my God, you’re a fucking homewrecker. If I ever get a boyfriend, I’m never leaving you alone with him."
George was, of course, correct. It was obvious from Linda’s disposition and appearance that someone loved her very much. Someone completely oblivious to the risk that a crazy fag might kidnap her sweet kitty and refuse to give it back.
I picked Linda up and set her outside. She meowed at the door for a bit, confused by her abrupt departure, and then gave up and took her leave.
"I miss her already," I said, watching from the window.
"I know, darling," said George. "There’s nothing quite so bittersweet as the end of an affair."

I Should Be So Lucky

Once, I had this lucky bracelet. It was a small fabric cuff I bought years ago at Urban Outfitters, and I loved it dearly. My lucky bracelet was on my wrist throughout cancer treatment, was used as a costume piece in my first movie, and joined me on my first trip to Europe. I loved that damn bracelet. Last fall, I left it in the bedroom of a one-night stand. I didn’t have a phone number for the guy, and despite all my best efforts, I never got it back. My friends told me there was a life lesson to extract, something about letting go and that accessories cannot really bring you luck. But it’s hard to ignore the evidence: It’s been six months since I lost that bracelet, and I still don’t have a boyfriend. Coincidence? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Last week, I was at a bar with George and Slutty Mandy, celebrating the birthday of a mutual friend. The revelry was in full swing, and everyone present had reached that point of inebriation where every exchange, even with strangers, begins with, "I just...love you...so much."
My buzz, however, was about to come to an abrupt end.

As I scanned the room for any interesting possibilities, my gaze landed on a fella standing by himself, apparently three sheets to the proverbial wind himself. In an instant, I felt stone sober. I nudged my companions.
"Topher, I just... love you..." Mandy began.
"I love you too," I said. "Now, look over there, by the stairs."
They followed my glare.
"Go for it," said George. "You could have him."
"That’s just it," I said. "I’ve had him. That’s motherfucking Bracelet Guy."
"You’re kidding me," said Mandy, getting up. "Okay, I’m settling this shit once and for all."
"No no no," I pleaded, blocking her path. "If you scare him off, I’ll never get it back."
"And then we’ll hear about that damn bracelet for the rest of our lives," said George.
"Exactly," I said. "I’ll handle this. All I need is an invite back to his place, and I can get it back."
"Wait," said Mandy. "You’ll sleep with him again just to get the bracelet?"
"I don’t have to actually sleep with him, he just has to think I will."
"And then what? You’ll escape?"
"If possible, yes."
"You know, Topher," said Mandy. "Sometimes it’s like you live a really gay episode of I Love Lucy."
"Here’s a thought," interjected George. "He might not have it anymore. What then?"
"Then I will steal his cat."
And with that, I let my hair down, picked up my drink, and crossed the room, boosted by slurred cheers of encouragement.

A week later, I’m out at my regular haunt, but without George, who’s at home, knocked flat by "a thing". It’s some sort of wretched virus, or food poisoning, or something. When you don’t have health insurance, every illness is a mystery. You just have "a thing" until you don’t anymore.
A dark-haired stranger sits down next to me. We strike up a conversation. He’s actually doing most of the talking, because I’m too busy staring at his biceps to pay close attention. This guy has the arms of a superhero. And come to think of it, he looks a little like Clark Kent. Quickly, I envision a half-dozen scenarios where he has to rescue me from peril- I’m trapped in a burning building... I’m walking through Piedmont Park, and a tree falls on me... A robot monster is destroying Midtown... When I return from my reverie, I notice he’s having trouble lighting his cigarette.
"Cheap lighter," says Superhero. "Only works half the time."
I take it from his hand and give it a try, producing a flame on the first attempt.
"How ‘bout that," he says. "You must be good luck."
"Better keep me around, then," I say.
"For my own protection," he agrees.
I look down to my wrist, at the frayed brown fabric cuff that has returned to its rightful home. Damn if it ain’t working already.

I, Claudia

If the most overused pickup line was once “What’s your sign?”, the current top contender in the Atlanta bar scene has gotta be “Where you from?”. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but pretty much nobody’s actually from here. Some gay men came to our fair city from other bustling metropolitan areas that were overflowing with arts and culture they now bemoan losing.
“The bars here suck,” whines the big city transplant. “This isn’t how things were back home.”
As I once saw on a bumper sticker on Peachtree Street, “We don’t care how you did it in New York.”
But a large portion of our gay populace came here from small towns throughout the Southeast- idyllic little hamlets with town squares, children on bicycles, bake sales, the whole shebang.
At some point, these small town boys reached a moment of decision that would determine their fate. I’m not referring to when they realized they didn’t fit in. That generally happens very early on and is confirmed incessantly over the years. I speak of the instant they realized they didn’t want to fit in. They wanted to leave.
For me, that moment arrived courtesy of our church secretary.
In my Mississippi hometown, the highlight of the year is the annual Easter pageant, “His Last Days”, presented by the Methodist church. Thousands of people from throughout the state come to see the outdoor drama, starring the entire congregation in Biblical drag. The climactic moment is Jesus ascending to Heaven in one of those cherry pickers like the phone company uses, amid a flurry of strobe lights and fog. It’s awesome.
It is, of course, the story of Jesus, but when I was growing up, the real star of the Easter pageant was Miss Ginger, the church secretary. Miss Ginger played the role of Claudia, wife of Pontius Pilate. Claudia’s a fairly minor character in the Bible, scoring one line in the Book of Matthew regarding a dream she had about Jesus. But Miss Ginger managed to take that one line and turn it into something utterly fabulous.
All of the members of the cast had costumes and makeup done by a group of volunteers from the church, except for Claudia, whose signature look was created by Judy from the Hairport.

It was like those old movies where the credits list “Joan Crawford’s gowns by Adrian”.

With supreme care, Miss Ginger would be fitted with a hairpiece, draped in gold lame and purple silk, and adorned with bangles and baubles on every available inch of her body. Her makeup was quintessential 1980s overstatement- the New Testament meets Dynasty. When the process was complete, our mild-mannered church secretary had been transformed into a glorious vision of glamour.
I would stand in the street with bated breath, waiting for her big scene. Claudia would make a grand entrance, robes sweeping, bracelets jangling, as she descended the stairs.
“Pilate,” she would command. “Do not become involved in these people’s guilt!”
Later, I would sneak into my mother’s Christmas closet and retrieve supplies. I’d stand in my bathroom mirror with silver garland on my arms, draped in the velvet tree skirt, striking an imperious pose.
“I have had a dream about this man,” I’d say with dramatic flair. “This… Jesus.”
It was amazing. Miss Ginger was this nice, conservative lady who made homemade pickles. But for three performances each Spring, she was transformed into what I would later learn was called “A diva”. This was obviously the person she was meant to be. She should be wearing a crown to the grocery store. How could she hang up this garb and go back to jumpers and sensible shoes after Easter passed?
Gazing at my reflection, a pudgy young boy covered in tinsel, I realized I couldn’t live in a place that only let people be fabulous three nights a year. I wanted to live gloriously, and make a grand entrance everywhere I go. So I came here, like so many others. And like the big city transplants, we might also look around a bar and say, “This isn’t how things were back home.” But when we say it, we mean it as a compliment.